


Love is not a Victory March

by redxcranberry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24780514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redxcranberry/pseuds/redxcranberry
Summary: Sylvain isn’t stupid. He’s been in the war council meetings. He’s read the intelligence reports. He’s watched as control of the formerly great Holy Kingdom of Faerghus has slipped away from them little by little, falling into the clutches of the relentless Adrestian army with Edelgard at its helm and their former professor at her side. He’s seen the look on Dimitri’s face when he thinks he’s all alone and the others can’t see. They’re losing the war, but at least he still has those he cares about most.Then Felix is sent to defend Arianrhod, and Sylvain’s world comes crashing down around him.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. The Holy and the Broken

**Author's Note:**

> An exploration of Sylvain and Felix's relationship during and after the Adrestian Conquest.
> 
> [I have a Twitter!](https://twitter.com/redxcranberry)

“Please don’t go.”

Sylvain knows it’s futile, but he can’t let Felix leave without saying _something_. It’s a dull, gray day outside the palace gates in the capital city of Fhirdiad, the base of operations for what’s left of the Blue Lions. They’ve been hunkered down for what seems like a lifetime, trying their best to mount an increasingly battered resistance against Emperor Edelgard – their former professor at her side – and the ruthless, ever-approaching Adrestian army.

Sylvain isn’t stupid. He’s been in the war council meetings, read the intelligence reports, watched as control of the formerly great Holy Kingdom of Faerghus slipped away from them little by little. He’s seen the look on Dimitri’s face when he thinks he’s all alone and the others can’t see. They’re losing the war – would have lost it already if not for dumb luck, Claude and the Leicester Alliance buying them some time, and the professor’s inexplicable disappearance until just a few months ago. But as the fight had gone on, it had become increasingly clear that their defeat is not so much a matter of _if_ but a matter of _when_.

The letter requesting additional manpower had arrived the previous week from Arianrhod. Adrestian forces, the letter had said, are a mere fortnight away from the Silver Maiden’s gates, and as their last major fortress, it’s imperative that it’s heavily defended by their best soldiers. Dimitri couldn’t risk going himself – what good would their dwindling resistance be without a king to fight for? – but Rodrigue, the vaunted Shield of Faerghus, had volunteered almost immediately.

And with him, of course, would go Felix.

Felix is readying his horse for the journey, but he pauses and turns to answer Sylvain. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is pressed into a tight little line, and Sylvain knows the response he’s going to get before the words leave Felix’s lips.

“You know I have to.”

Of course Sylvain knows. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times over since that damned letter arrived – horrible, gut-wrenching fights that left both of them red faced and teary eyed. He knows that Felix, despite his outward hostility to chivalry and honor and all things reminiscent of knighthood, would never abandon his father and his house’s soldiers, no matter how hopeless the cause. And he knows from experience that once Felix has made up his mind, there’s nothing he can do to change it.

“I’ll go with you.”

“We’ve been over this,” Felix says, and there’s a crack in his voice that Sylvain pretends not to notice. “Dimitri needs you and the others here, in case…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to for Sylvain to understand. They stand there, refusing to meet each other’s eyes, and Sylvain watches flecks of water start to darken the worn leather of Felix’s saddle as another Lone Moon rainstorm unfolds in the sky above the city.

“Felix – your father is looking for you. We’re nearly ready to depart.” The soft beating of pegasus wings tells Sylvain that Ingrid is behind him, and she gives him a weak smile when he turns around, armor gleaming, her short hair neatly tied back by her usual emerald bow. She’s also been chosen to defend Arianrhod, and Sylvain feels a dull ache in his heart at the thought of another one of his childhood friends sent to fight the Emperor without him. _A knight off to die to defend her kingdom_ , he thinks bitterly, _just like the characters in the stories she always looked up to so much_.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Felix replies, and Ingrid offers a terse nod to both of them before leaving to join her battalion, already gathered at the gates and waiting for her order to set off.

“I’ll be back soon.” Felix breaks the silence between them, meeting Sylvain’s gaze for the first time. Sylvain gives a small nod, refusing to contemplate the alternative.

“Don’t break our promise.”

Felix opens his mouth as if to say something, and Sylvain wonders if he should lean in to kiss him, give him one last goodbye for the send off he’s been dreading for what seems like forever, a nagging voice in the back of his head screaming that this is the last time they’ll see each other –

“Felix!” It’s Rodrigue, mounted on his horse and already positioned at the head of the Fraldarius corps. He motions for Felix to join him.

“I – I have to go.” Felix stutters, and the moment has passed.

He finishes securing his camping supplies and a few meager rations to the mare’s back, then swings himself up into the saddle. Felix gives a sad little wave as he spurs the horse towards his father and away from Sylvain, and Sylvain’s not sure if it’s just the steadily pounding rain dripping off the both of them or if Felix really does have tears in his eyes as he leaves.

He doesn’t look back.

Sylvain stands on the ramparts watching Felix’s retreating figure until he can no longer make out his silhouette, sheets of rain swallowing up the amorphous, gray mass of Faerghus soldiers as they march into the valley of death.


	2. Even Though it All Went Wrong

They’re in the middle of a late night war council meeting wearily pouring over maps of Fódlan and debating the positioning of the remaining Kingdom forces when a royal messenger knocks on the door to the war room. Dimitri rises from his place at the head of the table, and Sylvain feels his stomach drop as he watches him walk across the room and step into the hall, closing the door behind him as the others continue strategizing.

It’s been over a week since Felix was sent away to fight, over a week since they’ve heard anything about the Adrestian army’s plans to lay siege to the fortress, over a week that Sylvain’s been on edge waiting for any word of news. He knows he’s not supposed to – knows that whatever the message is, it’s meant for Dimitri’s ears only – but he feels as if he’s not control of his own body as he excuses himself from the meeting and walks over to the exit, straining to hear the muffled voices on the other side of the door.

“…so sorry, Your Highness…came as fast as I could.”

“…news to report?”

“A message from the southwest…Arianrhod…”

Sylvain feels his blood run cold, pulse quickening rapidly, his heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest.

“…pillars of light, some sort of magic...completely destroyed.”

“And our men…?”

“The army…Houses Fraldarius and Galatea…”

“…no survivors.”

 _No_. Sylvain feels his legs start to give out beneath him and leans against the wall for support. _There’s been a mistake. It can’t be true._

The door swings open and Sylvain is face to face with Dimitri, the expression on his face reminding Sylvain of a much younger version of the man in front of him – scared, broken down, vulnerable.

“I’m sorry, Sylvain.” Dimitri says, voice cracking.

It hits him all at once – _Felix, dead –_ and suddenly Sylvain finds it hard to breathe.

He’s been running from this feeling his whole life, ever since he was a child – it had always been easier to forgo attachment to others, to spurn the concept of love, to pretend he doesn’t care even when he cares so deeply he feels as if he may cry from the intensity of it all. But Felix had always been different from everyone else, had always been by his side from the time they were nothing more than scared children together, had always allowed him to truly be himself when his own family and so many others saw him as nothing more than a walking crest. The idea of never being with him again – never hearing his voice, never seeing his face, never feeling his body pressed against his – makes Sylvain wish he had fallen, too.

 _We made a promise_ , Sylvain’s mind protests against reason, tears threatening to spill over _. Not Felix, please –_

He faintly registers the horrified gasps of his comrades when Dimitri tells the rest of the group the news as he falls to his knees, dry heaving, gasping for air as the weight of the world bears down on him.

____________________

They hold a joint funeral in the royal graveyard among ancient obelisks and mausoleums commemorating generations of Fhirdiad nobility, some engraved with names that Sylvan vaguely recognizes from his history lessons so long ago. There are no bodies to bury, but three nondescript white marble headstones have been commissioned to serve as markers for mourners to come and pay their respects.

Dedue has gathered some native wildflowers to fashion funeral wreaths for Felix, Rodrigue, and Ingrid, each one adorned with markers bearing the Fraldarius or Galatea coat of arms. Everyone is dressed in black as they take their places in the ceremony, heads bowed, and Sylvain stares blankly at the ground as he listens to Annette’s quiet sobbing and Mercedes’ hushed prayers. 

_They fought bravely until the end and died honorably in the service of their king_ , Gilbert says as part of the eulogy, Dimitri standing silently beside him, and Sylvain suddenly understands the unbridled rage that Felix felt when Glenn was taken from him _in the service of his king_.

What good is duty, if this is where it inevitably leads? What good is honor, if there’s no one left to honor you in the end?

____________________

Sylvain has the same dream every night.

He’s on the battlefield atop his mount, the Lance of Ruin grasped tightly in his hands and pulsing a brilliant red that blurs in his peripheral vision as he thrusts at the tidal wave of Adrestian soldiers washing over him. Blood stains his lance, his gauntlets, his armor as he spears through soldier after soldier, stopping only to wipe the sweat and grime from his eyes as he snuffs out each enemy one by one.

Then he sees her through the fray: Edelgard herself, axe gleaming in the sunlight, crimson robes flowing out from behind her as she turns to meet him. He charges towards her, lance extended, feeling the blood frantically rushing through his veins as he single-mindedly barrels toward his one chance at vengeance. Somehow, he runs her clean through and for a second he thinks he’s done it – saved his homeland, avenged his friends, protected his king – but when he glances downward again it’s not Edelgard speared on the tip of his lance but Felix, blood gushing from the wound in his stomach and dripping from his open mouth as he falls to the ground.

Sylvain screams, and he watches in horror as Felix’s gaze meets his own, eyes wide as he draws breath for the last time.

When he wakes, his face is stained with tears.

____________________

Sylvain trains and he trains and he trains, head empty of all thoughts but vengeance, staying up late into each night until he nearly passes out from exhaustion. The relentless schedule he adopts makes him think of Felix and his intense, unwavering focus on getting stronger that Sylvain had never quite understood until now. The reminder only forces him to push himself even harder. He remembers all the times Felix pestered him to take fighting more seriously in their academy days – what feels like lifetimes ago – and can’t help but think about how ironic it is that this is what it took to bring him around. Sure, he and Felix had both lost family in the past, but Glenn was much more of a brother and friend to Felix than Miklan ever was to him, and Sylvain is just realizing he’s never mourned someone he truly cares about before.

It’s after one of these late night sessions that he finds his feet carrying him to the palace’s cathedral, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the empty halls. Sylvain has never been a particularly religious man, but he was raised going through the motions, and he doesn’t know where else to turn at a time like this.

The reports trickling in over the past few days have been grim. The Adrestian army is well on its way to the capital, capturing former Faerghus strongholds left and right as Edelgard blazes her way across the continent. The current plan is to intercept the Adrestian army away from the city’s gates on the Tailtean Plains, as Fhirdiad is in no shape to withstand a siege, but they will be outnumbered two to one at the very least. It’s taken all Sylvain has not to break down when he thinks about the impending battle. He can feel the walls closing in on them; every breath is precious and fleeting, every second not nearly long enough.

He enters the darkened cathedral and sits hesitantly in one of the center pews as he takes stock of the giant space he’s situated in. His eyes wander to the colorful stained glass windows set back into the stone walls around him, their intricate patterns serene and glowing in the moonlight, then his gaze follows the stone supporting columns upwards to the vaulted roof high above his head. The arched ceiling is decorated with a detailed fresco of the Goddess surrounded by the four saints, her flowing white dress billowing out from behind her graceful form as she descends from on high to create the land of Fódlan and its people.

“Good evening, Sylvain.”

The breathy voice nearly makes him jump out of his seat as he whips his body around to search for the source.

“Oh. Mercedes,” he sighs, relaxing his grip on the back of the pew. She’s seated a few rows behind him – he must have walked right past her on the way in, lost in his own thoughts. He hadn’t expected to run into anyone this late. “I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s alright,” she says quietly. “Did you come here to pray?”

“I’m not sure what I came here for,” Sylvain admits, and she gives him a sad little smile. They sit there quietly for a minute before Sylvain breaks the silence. “What about you?”

“I visit the cathedral most nights,” Mercedes offers, staring up at the fresco, hands clasped in her lap. “It makes me feel safe.”

“You once told me you grew up in the Church,” he recalls.

“Yes – the Church took me and my mother in when we had nowhere else to go. Being here makes me feel at home.”

Sylvain studies Mercedes’ expression, and she calmly stares back at him. He had never been afforded the privilege of feeling safe in his own home; instead, he was constantly walking on eggshells – around his parents, who only ever saw him as a stud to pass on his crest, and around his brother, who only ever saw him as the one who took everything away from him by merely existing.

And where even was home to him now? Back in Gautier with his wretched excuse for a father, who had pleaded with him through letters to abandon the resistance and return to their estate _to ensure the continuation of the esteemed Gautier family line_? The only time he’s ever truly felt at home, he realizes, is back at the academy before Edelgard’s invasion had brought everything crashing down.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he says gently, “what do you pray for?”

“Oh, lots of things,” Mercedes replies. “For the war to end. For the safety of our friends and allies. And for peace for those we’ve lost.”

Her last few words hang in the air between them, and Sylvain turns away from her to face forward, his eyes prickling with tears. “I should have been there, Mercedes,” he chokes out, “at Arianrhod, I never should have let them–”

“Please don’t, Sylvain,” Mercedes pleads, “it’s not your fault. There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

He nods silently, trying not to let Mercedes see his face as he stares straight ahead towards the altar at the head of the room. It’s surrounded by small prayer candles, flickering little things that cast long, dancing shadows on the walls as the only light sources aside from the moon streaming through the windows. They’ve been lit constantly since the war started, new ones appearing with every passing day as mourners come to pray for each new soul claimed in battle. He wonders which ones are for Felix.

“I loved him, you know,” Sylvain shakily whispers, the admission feeling like lead on his tongue as he buries his head in his hands, “Felix – I –”

“I understand the pain you've had to carry,” Mercedes says softly. When he finally looks back at her again, her eyes are glassy in the moonlight. “I know what it’s like to lose those you care about most.”

“How am I supposed to keep going on?” Sylvain asks, fighting against the tears that are threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes.

“One day at a time,” Mercedes assures him.

Sylvain nods. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. _One day at a time,_ he thinks. He can do that.

After all, they don’t have many days left.


End file.
